Black River (5 page)

O’Brien tied the stern line and walked to the bow, Nick adjusting the engine on
St. Michael
, working against the rising tide and wind out of the east. O’Brien grabbed the rope on the bow, rapidly tying it to a cleat. Nick shot his brown arm out the window, killing the engine, giving O’Brien the thumbs-up sign. Max cocked her head, watching Nick climb down from the wheelhouse. “Hot Dog,” he said, scooping Max off the dock with one large hand. “I caught a lot of fish out there. Gonna cook some after I sell some. Sound good? Hell yeah it sounds good ‘cause Uncle Nicky is hungry.”

O’Brien smiled. “Between you and Kim, Max will forever turn her nose up at dog food.”

“That’s because ‘lil Max is the queen of the marina, and she knows it.” Nick laughed and set Max down in
St. Michael’s
cockpit. The fishing boat had the seafaring look and lineage of Greek boats that sailed and fished the Mediterranean Sea for centuries.

Nick reached inside a large cooler and pulled out two cans of beer. He popped the top on one, taking a long pull, his eyes watering. He used the back of his hand to wipe the beer foam from his bushy moustache, handing the second beer to O’Brien. “Cheers, Sean. I’ve been at sea five days. Didn’t catch nothing the first three days. I say a little prayer and bam! I’m toasting to a damn good catch. Amen, brother.” He touched the gold cross hanging from his neck and knocked back a second long swallow from the can, shaved ice running down the side and splattering on the top of his brown feet.

Born on the Greek island of Mykonos forty-four years ago, Nick Cronus’s accent was still as thick as his mop of curly black hair. He had the shoulders of a pro linebacker, ham-sized forearms, and black eyes that smiled from an olive-skinned face tanned the color of light tea. He had a generous and yet fearless heart. Three years earlier, O’Brien pulled two bikers off Nick, saving his life in a brutal bar fight taken into a parking lot. And since that day, Nick said he and O’Brien were “brothers for life.”

O’Brien nodded. “Good to hear you did well out there. What’d you catch?”

“Got about a hundred pounds of red snapper. Maybe another seventy-five in grouper. A half dozen mackerel. I’ll sell ‘em to Johnson Seafood this afternoon. Old man Johnson prefers to pay me in cash. I don’t have a problem with that.” Nick grinned and finished his can of beer, crushing it with one hand. He gestured with his head toward the dock. “Look who’s here looking for a handout. My buddy, Ol Joe.”

Max growled when a large black and orange cat sauntered down the dock and sat less than ten feet behind
St. Michael
. Nick said, “Maxie, you may be queen of the marina, but Ol’ Joe is king of the docks. That cat is the Scarface of the harbor.” Nick reached in a fish cooler, searched through ice, pulling out a small yellowtail snapper. He slid the filet knife from the leather sheath on his belt, cut the head off the fish, and tossed it to the cat. Ol’ Joe clamped down on the fish head with one bite, held it in his mouth, and strolled back down the dock, a sea gull squawking from one of the pilings.

“Sean, are you expecting a package?” Dave Collins shouted, standing in the center of his cockpit across the dock and one boat away from
St. Michael
. He held up a brown box.

“It might be my bilge pump,” O’Brien said, walking toward Dave’s boat,
Gibraltar
, a 45-foot trawler. Nick set Max back on the dock, and she followed O’Brien, pausing a moment to look in the direction she’d last seen Ol’ Joe disappear.

Nick tossed the fish in the cooler and also followed O’Brien over to
Gibraltar
. Dave said, “Shipping label indicates it came from Pacific Marine. UPS guy left it with me since you weren’t on
Jupiter
. I signed for it. Let me know if you need any help installing the pump. Not that you’re challenged in that area.” Dave grinned. “How’d you do, Nick?”

“Real good. Caught enough to pay dockage fees, fuel, beer, food—a few bucks to entertain the ladies. What else is there in life, huh?”

Dave nodded, pushing his glasses on top of his thick white hair. He had a matching beard, wide chest, and inquisitive, sea-blue eyes. For a man in his mid-sixties, he kept in shape, jogging daily on the beach, spending time at the gym. He had a passion for craft beers and scotch. He’d spent most of his career in the Middle East, Germany and England before returning to Washington and a desk job at Langley. After retiring, he moved to Florida with his wife of twenty-eight years, divorcing within eight months. The only times O’Brien ever saw Dave sad was when, after a few martinis, past reflection brought out bits and pieces of the story.

O’Brien moved the file folder under one arm and lifted the package. Dave said, “When did you start carrying your newspaper in a file folder?”

“Since an elderly man asked me to search for a ghost.”

“Ghostbusters,” Nick said, smiling.

Dave nodded. “I have to hear this. Nothing like a good ghost story. Come aboard, gentlemen. I’ve had a pot of chili simmering since the pelican crowed this morning. It ought to be ripe about now.”

They boarded
Gibraltar
, Max following at the rear, her nose going into overdrive as soon as she trotted inside the salon. A crockpot sat on the bar in the salon. Dave went into the galley and came back with three bowls and a small saucer. He lifted the glass top off the crockpot, steam rising, the salon filling with the smell of rich chili. Max stood on her hind legs and glanced at Nick.

“We gottcha covered, hot dog,” Nick said.

Dave ladled chili into the bowls and cut up some turkey meat for Max. He reached inside a small refrigerator under the bar and brought out three cans of craft beer,
The Poet
, from a Michigan craft brewery. “Let’s eat,” he said, taking a seat on the leather couch. “Ghost stories are told, or received, better at night, but I’m sure we’ll get the effect, Sean.”

O’Brien went over what he’d heard from Gus Louden, showed them a copy of the old photo and the article in USA Today. Dave pushed back from his empty bowl, sipped his beer thoughtfully and said, “The woman in the picture was certainly striking, enigmatic eyes. So all it would take is for you to hunt down her original image captured in oil paints on a canvas somewhere? It could have been destroyed in a house fire, or maybe sold a few times for ten cents on a dollar in a garage sale.”

Nick chuckled. “That painting might be on the wall of a Cracker Barrel restaurant. You see that kind of period Americana art in those places right up there with the old Coca Cola and Burma-Shave signs.”

O’Brien said, “The last time Gus Louden saw it was when he was a kid…he must be at least sixty-five today.”

Dave nodded. “And, now, after all these years, an old Civil War photo turns up from out of the blue and is donated to the Confederate Museum.” Dave looked down at the picture in the newspaper. “But the woman in the photo, although quite beautiful, is as anonymous as any of the many unknown soldiers buried in Civil War cemeteries.”

“Not to Gus Louden,” O’Brien said. “He’s convinced she was his great, great grandmother. But he can’t prove it.”

Nick ladled a second scoop of chili in his bowl. “Maybe you ought to take the job. You’re done with teaching at the college ‘till the winter semester. Your charter fishing biz…” Nick grinned. “Well, the last time you went out, you caught a submarine on your anchor. Maybe you should do what you’re good at…finding people, finding stuff, not finding fish.”

Dave grunted. “He’s right, Sean. This could be the perfect time to do some PI work. I always said that you’ve got a sixth sense. Might as well be compensated for using it.”

“After years as a detective, I’ve done everything I can to keep from going back there.”

“Indeed,” Dave said. “But, like it or not, you’re often back in that arena. Why not do it professionally, even on a limited scale? Finding an old painting seems innocuous, at least safe.”

O’Brien’s cell phone vibrated. He answered and Kim Davis said, “Sean, I’ve been racking my brain, and now I remember where I saw the painting that looks a lot like the woman in the old photo.”

N
ick glanced at the TV screen behind Dave’s bar. “Crank up the sound. Since I’ve been at sea, looks like the hands of time got turned back. Why’re all those dudes dressed as Civil War soldiers? And why is a police crime scene tape around that field?”

“Hold on, Nick,” O’Brien said, trying to hear over the phone as a trawler two slips down fired up its big diesels. “Kim, did you come up with something?”

“Maybe. A few months ago I was antiquing with my friend, Beverly, and we were in this shop in DeLand. On the second floor they have lots of turn-of-the-century stuff, some things from the 1800s. I remember it because Bev pointed out the painting, saying the woman looked a little like me. I didn’t think so, but now I remember where I saw it.”

“What’s the name of the store?”

“Crawford Antiques. Are you going there?”

“Maybe. Dave and Nick think I should work as a private investigator.” O’Brien watched Nick grin and lift up a bottle of
The Poet
in a mock toast, his eyes cutting back to the TV screen.

Kim said, “Unfortunately, your investigations manage to become very public. That’s how the elderly gentlemen knew about you. Maybe you can find the painting for him, give him some kind of family closure and let it end there. I just hope that old painting is in no way connected to that Civil War movie they’re filming. There’s a news bulletin on now. Talk to you later.”

She disconnected and O’Brien said, “Nick, you can turn up the sound.”

“Good,” he grinned. “I’ve been tryin’ to read lips.”

Dave reached for the remote control, turning up the audio. A news reporter stood under some oak trees, red and blue lights from stationary police cruisers flashing, yellow crime tape in the background. He said, “Detectives aren’t calling the shooting death of a Civil War re-enactor a homicide, but they’re not calling it an accident either. They’ve interviewed the re-enactors working on the set of the feature film,
Black River
, and according to one detective, of the forty-five re-enactors playing Union soldiers, none was aware a Minié ball was in his rifle when the first barrage of gun blasts were fired. All of the rifles were supposed to be shooting blanks. Since this was the first battle scene filmed for the movie, police theorize that the round might have been left over from target practice. However, they say the investigation will continue. To recap, authorities say the victim is a thirty-five-year-old Civil War buff…a man said to have loved re-enacting Civil War battles and collecting Civil War memorabilia. From the Ocala National Forest, Jack Greene, Channel Four News.”

Nick pushed back in his chair, his dark eyebrows arched. “Those reenactors are a funky bunch. Sounds like one dude, the Union guy, forgot the damn Civil War is history. It’s gotta be old wounds, grudges that keep gettin’ handed down, father-to-son kinda thing.”

Dave set his beer on a lime-green coaster that read:
Bottoms Down - Key West
. He grunted. “Maybe that’s the case, but it’s doubtful. Looks like a very unfortunate accident. Those guys are re-enactors because they love it, and for the most part, they all know each other and are friends whether they’re on the Union side or flying the Confederate flag. Maybe it was nothing more than a bad mistake and the shooter most likely didn’t know he had a round in the rifle.”

Nick shook his head. “Wouldn’t it kick his shoulder harder if it shot a bullet rather than a blank? What the hell do I know? I’m just a fisherman. Looks like, if it was an accident, the guy who did it would step up to the plate and admit it.”

Dave nodded. “That’s assuming he knew there was a Minié ball in the rifle. Those guys are probably using the old Springfield models, or replicas. They spend a lot of time at the shooting range and competitions. It was
most likely a horrible accident. And think about this parallel: in some firing squads, only one of the shooters has a live round. So no one knows who is firing the bullet into the body of the condemned man. All of those re-enactors out there today can’t be sure if the rifle they were using was firing blanks…so it’s a shared potential culpability. What are your thoughts, Sean?”

O’Brien lowered his eyes from the TV screen, fed Max an oyster cracker and said, “That’s assuming it wasn’t deliberate. Otherwise, it wouldn’t be the first time someone was accidently shot or killed on a movie set.”

Dave folded his arms across his chest and settled back into his couch. “Perhaps a dear old friend of mine can shed some light on that, assuming he was actually on the film set at the time. You two may have heard me mention his name—Ike Kirby. Ike’s a history professor at the University of Florida and is recognized as one of the foremost experts on the Civil War. He’s been doing some consultant work for the producers of the movie,
Black River
. I’ve invited him to dine on my boat tomorrow. Please join us.”

Nick said, “I’ll shuck a couple dozen fresh oysters for appetizers.”

O’Brien glanced at the photograph he set on the bar, smiled and said, “Maybe your friend can tell me more about the lady in this picture. Now that would be impressive.”